Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘You had only a very small time at your bed. Perhaps you know now it was not such a good idea to go there to that club, when is finished the oper. But of course you must go, of course you must listen to your lady friend.’ ‘Who?’ asks Petworth. ‘Petwurt, you know who,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your new lady friend, the wild English one who goes with Tankic. Who is she? Where do you meet her?’ ‘Oh, that’s Mrs Steadiman,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, she is his wife?’ cries Lubijova, ‘Really he likes to marry her? Then I think both of you do not choose your ladies very well, she is not such good friend. Once it is famous that all the British are reservated, but not any more, I think.’ ‘She is quite energetic,’ says Petworth. ‘Energetic, yes, I think so,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, she nearly makes you some very bad trouble. But perhaps you think it is nice to visit a prison.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I think you nearly did it, last night,’ says Lubijova, ‘You know, Petwurt, to me, you are such a strange man. Always you are making yourself problems that are ridiculous and no one knows how to help you. How can I understand you?’ ‘It seems very understandable to me,’ says Petworth. ‘But don’t you think of anything serious?’ asks Lubijova, ‘But, no, I suppose you think it is nicer to go to a topless.’ ‘A topless what?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course, that topless club where the strip lady makes the dance of the seven scarves. And you are taking one of those scarves to give to your energetic English lady, and the policemen make you turn it back to her.’ ‘I did that?’ asks Petworth. ‘You don’t remenber it?’ asks Lubijova. ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘Was it before or after I was sick?’ ‘Oh, before,’ says Lubijova, ‘It is lucky you were sick only after those policemen take you outside. When you had poured your drink all over the suit of poor Professor Rum.’ ‘I poured drink over Professor Rum?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course you were angry,’ says Lubijova, ‘You did not like him to leave with your good friend the lady writer. You are lucky he understands it, and likes to be gracious and forget about it. Also that Mr Tankic knows so well those policemen, and comes with you when they take you in the police van to your hotel. Or perhaps you would not now be here with me.’

  In front of them the driver, with his square neck, sits solidly. Evidently he possesses some kind of élite or official status; for, when he sounds his curious klaxon, cars draw to the side to let him pass, horse-drawn carts tug suddenly to a halt, even peasants leap into the ditches, under their own volition. Occasionally the unobligingness of one of the drivers of the few cars he passes offends him; he sticks a baton through the window, draws to a halt, and walks back to speak to the errant owner. ‘You see he likes to treat you as very special guest,’ says Lubijova, ‘Don’t you think you should be responsible?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, desperately delving in memory to try to recover the events of the previous late evening. He remembers some things: the departure in a crowd from the great warm womb of the opera house; the group of welldressed uncertain people standing in the warm street, disputing where to go next; the cramped taxi ride, with a backside imprinted on his knee; the dim dull cellar of a state nightclub, a cellar and nothing more, where the people sit on iron chairs at plastic tables, drinking a warm light beer, the only drink on offer; a limp floorshow, with a gloomy Fifties singer in a pink ballgown, a choir of ten militiamen singing upliftingly in close harmony in their uniforms, and yes, one small blonde strip artiste, slowly and artistically removing gauzy veils from her thin body to the drum-rolls of a besuited, bespectacled threepiece band, and wearing, in addition to her diaphanous harem costume, a large earthenware pot on the top of her head. He remembers more: the disappointment when the seventh veil around the thin thighs is about to fall, and the lights cut, leaving only, in some bleak and deceitful exchange, one single spotlight which illuminates no longer the girl, who has disappeared into total blackness, but the earthenware pot, which wobbles, teeters, is steadied by a momentary hand, held upright, and the act ends. But the faces of his company are hard to recover, though he suspects that round the table were a laughing Budgie, a grinning Tankic, a silent Rum, a withdrawn Princip, an icy Lubijova, with only Plitplov having neglected to come.

  The driver turns and says something: ‘Tells here in this village there is a different name for a goat,’ says Lubijova, ‘And look now, here start our dark forests, very green. Also some mountains you cannot see so well, because there comes now a fog, but do not worry, I will describe you. Now do you see what a nice tour we make? And now is not so far to Glit. Don’t you like it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, looking out at a small huddled settlement of unpainted wooden houses, and the rising forested hills, and a hazy solid mass beyond, ‘So what else happened, last night?’ ‘Really you don’t remember it?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, perhaps you must ask your energetic friend. I do not think she is the best for you. Really, in my country, it is not so polite, if a stripteasing is just a little bit boring, to stand up in a club and make a better one yourself.’ ‘She did that?’ asks Petworth. ‘And you helped her,’ says Lubijova, ‘Why do you think are coming all those policemen? I don’t think it is a wonder your lady-writer disappoints, and is sad, and likes to leave.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘She left then, did she?’ ‘She tried it,’ says Lubijova, ‘And then you tried it to stop her. Naturally Professor Rum speaks to you, he is her protector. And then you are very noisy and asking for a fight of him. I did not think it of you, Comrade Petwurt. Of course I know you are jealous and you like to think she likes you. But I do not think it was so intelligent to do this, do you?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘Don’t miss please our forest, it is very good,’ says Lubijova, ‘Our tourists enjoy it very much. And here still live, do you know, the wolfs and the wild pigs. Strange things happen here, don’t you wish you could get out to look? But, of course, you cannot. We must go on.’ ‘Quite,’ says Petworth, ‘And what happened then?’ ‘Oh, you poured your drink, and the policemen taked you outside,’ says Lubijova, ‘And that is how you go to your hotel, not a very good way for a visiting lecturer.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘And Katya? She went with Professor Rum?’ ‘Oh, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘Don’t you understand it, I have always been right. I have told you it is not so wise to like so much this lady. Well, now you know that one is not what she seems. She is strange, well, of course, she is a writer. Now, over there, the Storkian mountains, do you see? Many people like to come there in the summer to make the trails of horseback, and in the winter to make ski. I wish you could see them better, but one day you will come back.’

  The road, lined with thicket and trees, now climbs a rocky defile, reaches a peak, stares down into a deep gorge. In the black car, high in the dark forest, Petworth stares into one too. ‘She is not what she seems?’ he asks. ‘I try to make you understand,’ says Lubijova, ‘And I think she does also, with her story of the witch.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘And last night you are very silly,’ says Lubijova, ‘And she will not like to see you again. Oh, Petwurt, I am sorry for you, I know how you like to think. She is free, she is courageous, she is a good woman who waits just for you. But really you know nothing, about our life here, what it is like, how we must live. Perhaps she does like you, it could be so. But to survive here, that is not simple, when we must always be reliable. And I think even your friend likes to survive, that is why she needs her protector, why she goes with Professor Rum. Of course he is a little bit dull, a little bit old, perhaps nothing much there in the bed. But he is important man in the academy, and also very high in the party, and with our Politburo. People need such friends, who can look after them very well. Perhaps you think you can do it, but I don’t think so.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘We have a saying in my country,’ says Lubijova. ‘Some advance on their knees, others on their backs,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do you know it?’ says Lubijova, ‘Perhaps you say it in your country too. But you must understand her position.’ ‘Very well,’ says Petworth. ‘She is artist, a little bit rebel,’ says Lubijova, ‘She likes to take a chance, perhaps not too m
uch, or she would not be success. But you must ask why they permit her to write those books. Always there is a reason. Do you know what we call that here?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, courage with the permission of the police,’ says Lubijova, ‘And to have it you must be always clever. And now you know why those two are always needing each other.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, staring down into the deep gorge that drops away from them beside the road.

  ‘So I hope now you understand something,’ says Lubijova, ‘Why always we see them together. Of course it is a very good exchange. He likes her charms, and recommends everywhere her work; think how nice for him to be seen with a person who is beautiful and respected, and has a great talent and a little courage. And for her, well, she is safe, you should please. It is not so strange, such things happen in all countries.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And so they go together, always, in the oper, in the theatre; even at an official lunch for an important foreign visitor, like Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And there you make a meeting,’ says Lubijova, ‘And who knows, perhaps she is a little bored, perhaps he has made a bad love, perhaps it is important to show that she is not one of those bureaucrats at all. So she makes a friend of you, and everyone notices. But of course it must have its purpose.’ ‘What purpose?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, look down there, how far,’ cries Lubijova, suddenly clutching Petworth’s arm, ‘Of course that is expert driver, but I still frighten. This is bad road, and there are many accidents.’ Petworth looks down from the road that narrows, dips, bends, turns this way and that in great hairpin bends that slowly bring them toward the green base of the great gorge below them. ‘It’s all right,’ he says, patting the hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Petwurt, I regret,’ says Lubijova, looking at him, ‘I hope you don’t disappoint with what I tell you, I think you do. Perhaps you have made some feelings about it that are a bit indiscreet. Well, please, I think you try to forget them. Perhaps already things begin to change. Perhaps Professor Rum is not so powerful, perhaps is time to make some new friends, there are changes now in our country. Always it is well to know someone new as well as someone who is old. But I don’t think that new one can really be you, Petwurt. Do you think you can really help a person like that?’ ‘Well, no, of course I can’t,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, what a shame, poor Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, looking at him, her thin white hands clutching her shoulderbag, ‘You come, you find your sexual princess, and then, what a pity, she is more complicate than you thought. Well, you know, people are strange in all countries, you must expect that. And in another place such signs are not easy to read. That is why you have with you a guide, I think, to read the signs. Oh, look, this famous waterfall, do you see it? Do you know what we call it? The waterfall of the virgin. I don’t know why, there are none in my country. But it is very pretty.’

  A great blind bend comes up in front of them; as they approach it, the big-necked driver suddenly turns his head, and begins to talk. ‘Always they do this,’ says Lubijova, ‘I interpret you. Tells we are almost to Glit. Tells you will see it when we are come across the next hill.’ Round the bend, down the twisting slope, and into the bottom of the gorge the huge black Volga goes; then it ascends again, climbing up till it reaches a new summit. From the summit there is a view; another large gorge, with thickly wooded slopes, and in the romantic landscape high houses, huddled together, red and gold roofs, a castle up on an eminence, with sharp, pencil-like towers. ‘Oh, do you see it, Glit?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Now we are really in another place. You know, everything is different, the people, the language, even the foods. Do you know this place was once very famous, more than Slaka? Here came all the trade, many secret spices, some from Tashkent, carpets from the Turk, silk from the east. Always we like to tell many stories about Glit. It is very nice, always I like this town. Of course there is a fine socialist reorganization, but it is still not so very different from the old time. Naturally, many tourists like to come here for our fine mountains and valleys, and also the beautiful altarpieces of the churches. But you do not interest in those. Also there are many opportunities of leisures both in the country and in the town.’ ‘I’m sure,’ says Petworth. ‘We say, those who see Glit always come back,’ says Lubijova, ‘Look now please, the gateway of the town, very old. Over there a tower with a gold roof that is very interesting. A lady in a typical dress of the region. Notice the balconies in the style of the Turk. They tell of Glit that outside every house hangs one pot of flowers, and those flowers are the souls of those inside. Look into the rooms, you see some women ply at old trades. Now the market place, how those peasants love to sell the fruit and the flowers. Don’t you like?’ ‘It’s very attractive,’ says Petworth.

  ‘Of course not all is old here,’ says Lubijova, ‘There is a new town with a universitet and a technic, you will see it tomorrow. But today I think you like to enjoy just this nice town. Here a river, isn’t it clean and deep, as always in the mountains. Our people like to fish here, what a pity you do not do it. And here, look now, it is our hotel, I hope you like. It is very ancient and very typical.’ There is a carillon from the klaxon, and the big black Volga halts outside the small low building, which has a restaurant garden, filled with umbrellas, overlooking the deep rushing river. Taking their luggage inside, they go into a low shady room; at the desk there is no girl in Cosmoplot uniform, but an old woman in a headscarf. ‘She likes please your passport and my permission of travel,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course I stay here too. Now, go with that boy, he takes you to your room, I will attend all these papers.’ Petworth is led along a corridor to a room, a small clean room, with a very narrow bed, a quiet innocent room with no misery attached, where nothing has yet happened. He puts down his luggage; water is splashing outside the window, the gurgle of the local river, quieter than Slakan traffic, a small hint of something closer to peace, though Petworth does not quite feel entirely peaceful. Putting away his battered briefcase, unpacking his blue suitcase, he remembers that there is an historical world, and that history means trouble. There is a knock at the door of his room: ‘It is Mari, your guide,’ says a voice, ‘That room is good for you? It makes you comfortable?’ ‘It’s very nice,’ says Petworth, opening the door. ‘Not so big, like in Slaka,’ says Marisja, looking around, ‘But for the country it is nice. Mine is just like it, but you have a river. Well, my dear Petwurt, you have an afternoon, all free. What do you like to do? You can make a tour by your own, or if you like it I can guide you somewhere. I would like to show you a castle, if you want it.’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘It is high,’ says Lubijova, ‘But I think you are still quite young. Please to finish your unpack and then you will find me in the lobby.’

  When they go out of the hotel, Lubijova takes him by the arm. ‘The car has gone, you see, that Volga,’ she says, ‘We are not his only work. And so we are together by ourselves. You know, always I like this town.’ And indeed Glit seems a likeable town, with old balconied houses, narrow streets busy with people, high stone towers, squares crammed with old trucks and horse-drawn carts. Girls walk by in bright peasant costume; men sit by the walls on sacks. They begin to mount stone steps that lead them above the town: ‘Now we go up quite a long way,’ says Lubijova, ‘Show me you can do that without a gasp.’ But Petworth is gasping by the time they reach the cracked old wooden doors of the castle, flanked by two worn stone lions: ‘Well, perhaps you are not so fit,’ says Lubijova, pulling at a bell, ‘But then of course you are a scholar. Does he come? Yes, he comes.’ An old man in felt slippers opens the door, to admit them into a cobbled courtyard. ‘You know he tells we are the only ones?’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, it is late for the tours. Now I explain you this castle. Once there were many rulers from elsewhere who liked to oppress us. They liked to live in this castle that looks at the city and watch what the people did. If they made some money, these men took some. If they had nice wives or daughters, also they took them. Look, here is a well, very deep. But you must not drink the water of it, do you know why? It is because here were dropp
ed the people of the town who were not so good, who did not like to pass away their wives or their daughters or their gelt, their coins. Throw down a stone, see how deep. Yes, they were very bad, those people. It was not so nice to live when they were here. But the people had their secret, it was inside them, they knew those big proud rulers in their fine clothes were not real. They had just invented themselves and they could blow away in the air. And they blew away, and they are dead. And now the people have this castle, which they can enjoy, and because those bad people left one good thing, we can forgive them just a little. But not too much, just a little.’

  There are great towers going up into the air; up on the towers, pigeons coo, dropping their detritus onto history. ‘Over here, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘This is, what do you say, the lattice?’ ‘The latrine,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, in case you do not think it, here you see that some things in the world are improved,’ says Lubijova, ‘You would not like to make business in that. I think now we go inside, and then I take you up a tower. Here a capella, notice please the altarpiece. A very good carver has made it. Do you recognize his subject? This is Saint Michael, see how he battles with the worm.’ ‘The worm?’ says Petworth. ‘What do you like to call it?’ asks Marisja. ‘A dragon,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, we teach something to each other,’ says Marisja, ‘It is a dragon. Next time I shall be better guide. And here in the glass tomb, what do you call it? Is it a skillet?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, looking into an exposed tomb, cased with bubbled glass, in which there lies a skull, a ribcage, a bone system, all still clad in the tatters of some ancient finery, the scraps of a dusty feathered hat, embroidered coat and waistcoat, frogged trousers, high boots, ‘A skillet’s something you cook with. This is a skeleton.’ ‘What a pity he has no one now to mend his cloths,’ says Marisja, ‘But, you know, I think he lies there to teach you something. I hope you learn, or for all these years he has been wasting his time.’ ‘I think I get the point,’ says Petworth. ‘Over here, the nose mummy of a saint in a case,’ says Marisja, ‘And then we go up a tower that is very nice.’ From the tower, there is an oceanic, pastoral horizon to look at, with waving treetops. ‘Well,’ says Marisja, when they reach the top, ‘My dear Mr Petwurt, I think today you have seen really a castle. Not like the other time, when you made your tour in a different place. Oh, don’t worry, I am not going to ask you more about your day with the lady writer. I think here we like to forget her. And it is easy, with such a nice view.’